


Lopov

by AmphigoricSymphony, DemonicSymphony



Series: Word Play [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Gen, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft To The Rescue, Only sort-of John, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmphigoricSymphony/pseuds/AmphigoricSymphony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/pseuds/DemonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's plans in Serbia go awry and Mycroft must step in. What might have happened in Serbia.</p><p>Pure Sherlock whump with big brother to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lopov - Serbian - Thief

"I'm beginning to wonder what it is I pay you for, Mr. Vega." Mycroft paused as he listened to Vega sputter on the other end. "Excessive? Shall I remind you for whom you are employed, or are you passively seeking a severance package? Four days is three too many." A tight smile crossed his face. "Excellent, I was sure you'd see it my way." 

Mycroft rang off, setting his mobile beside his desk, the whispers of a tension headache pulsing behind his left eye. He laced his fingers together over his blotter. His body language showed a man at ease. Mycroft gave a warm smile to the American sitting across his desk. His younger sibling appeared to delight in leaving just enough information to allow Mycroft to track approximately a week behind him. Much to his disappointment, a cocaine dealer from New York was now in his care, singing to his men. He had scrubbed Sherlock's last pseudonym and purchased a one-way ticket to Serbia. The breadcrumbs stopped at the small International airport in Vrsac. 

The Americans were involved in Black Ops there, engaging that very month. Mycroft did not believe in coincidence. Without hesitation, he delved in with him, "Now then, Agent Green, shall we begin?" 

\---

Sherlock read the paperwork in his hand. He scanned over the documents showing the disappearance of British secrets, money transferred to accounts Moriarty held from Serbian intelligence slush funds… Too close in proximity to be anything but the selling of state secrets to the Serbians by Moriarty. Sherlock straightened the coat on his uniform. Sherlock gave a sharp nod to himself in the mirror. On with it then. He donned his cap before slipping from the tiny room he was renting.

An hour later he slipped away from the throng of marching patrol, all with the makings of men who were years into service, so unlike the fresh faces of new recruits. Sherlock moved along the shadows to a strip of buildings on his left. Each were marked according to their purpose, and he put his focus to the block of four with various administrative signs. For several minutes he lay in wait, choosing the one least observed after careful consideration. His boots crunched in the damp gravel as he made his way to the recessed metal door. 

Sherlock bit the leather finger of his glove to tug it off as he drew out his kit. His fingers were steady as he studied the lock, images of the make and model flying to the front of his mind. It was the work of a minute to align the tumblers, the satisfying click telling him he'd gained entrance.

Sherlock was silent as he rifled through paperwork. Each turn of a page was harsher, each moment more of a jerk as he still could not find the plans. Minutes ticked by before his attention turned to the file cabinets. Sherlock held the small, red light in his mouth as he dug through the first drawer. American plans, warmer then. Sherlock took careful stock of each page as he moved through them, stealing glances at his watch on occasion. They weren't there.

He moved back to the door and listened. His breathing stilled for a count of fifteen before he crept back out the door, making sure to lock it behind him. Sherlock watched the comings and goings of guards for two full minutes. His footsteps were covered by the sound of a generator kicking in as he moved to another door. 

A minute passed as he repeated his motions from earlier on the lock, the same type as before. He closed the door with the barest click and went back to work, once again starting through paperwork.

"Borovic!" 

Lights at the circular security desk flashed as the silent alarms triggered, one by one, in a cascade down the lower archive hallways. Yasen Borovic responded, shaking snow off his boots as he came in off outer patrol. The wheel of the ancient desk chair squeaked its protest as he dragged it away from the console, fingers flying over the stiff keys as he called up footage. He leaned in, watching Sherlock move about, dull red light shining on pale fingers. "American?" he whispered as he watched. It would be odd, but at this point in his career, Yasen did not discount any possibility. 

When Sherlock moved across the hall to the more recent archives, Yasen shook his head and stood, tapping the guardsmen at his side. "He knows what he's after, prep Block C." 

He dropped his outer kit, snow coat and heavy boots, down to his garrison gear before he moved towards the stairwell. His footfalls were silent as he approached the room in question, MAG-95 in hand, ready to engage. He pushed the door open to the secondary records room with the sound knowledge that he was occupying the exclusive exit. "Is something we can be of helping with?" He asked, his English choppy, yet polite. 

Sherlock stilled at the voice, his answer in fluent Serbian, "I do not understand what you are saying to me." There was a small click as the flashlight turned off and a rustle of fabric as it was stowed in slow, careful movements. He did not turn as he continued to speak. "I was sent to find something by the commandant. He wanted to know how well your security was working here. Better than he expected."

The entire time he spoke, Sherlock's eyes darted about. Possible movements swam before his eyes, all dismissed almost as soon as they appeared in front of him. He took in the room then with slow, sweeping movements of his eyes. Coverage opportunities and weapons to be fashioned sprang up and washed away. He'd not had time to source a gun. Stupid. Stupid.

Borovic smirked, quite at ease as he took up the whole of the doorway, watching as Sherlock refused to turn and face him. "Commandant? Always a pleasure to demonstrate our efficiency here. Which commandant sent you?" He was not fooled for a moment, though he found it interesting that he was indeed a Serb. He kept his weapon leveled, his voice polite and calm. 

"I must insist you turn and face me, as well as present your identification. Protocol. You understand." 

Sherlock turned to face Borovic, one hand in the air, the other dipped into his coat pocket in slow, deliberate movements. He drew his papers from his pocket, wool rustling against dry skin. The weather here was atrocious in ways England could only dream about. The card carrier sailed through the air and landed with the slap of leather on wood in front of Borovic. 

"Anto Kasun. Commandant Loncar sent me."

Brorovic took up the identification. His examination of it was thorough. He slipped the leather into his pocket as he approached, sliding on the weapon safety and holstering it. "Kasun," he enunciated as he began to pat Sherlock down, still quite calm as he moved. "If you will simply come with me, we will just make our calls and then have you on your way." He stood back up from where he was crouching at Sherlock's legs, hands working in practiced movements to search him. 

He stepped back and arched a brow at Sherlock, motioning for him to leave the room ahead of him. 

Sherlock moved through the compound ahead of Borovic, listening to instructions only when they were given in Serbian. His body stilling each time a command was uttered in English. He looked over the concrete room as he stepped inside. One-way glass, a single chair, hanging light. Calculations danced through the air in front of him, the likelihood of being able to reach the light in order to smash it too small to risk. He'd never even hear the sound of the gun before the bullet slammed into him.

With grace and aplomb, Sherlock settled into the chair with an easy smile. "Do make those calls? I've important things to do for the Commandant." Mycroft came to his mind and Sherlock found himself hoping his interfering brother was tracking him with his usual fervor. 

The base Sherlock had infiltrated was not on the map, blacklisted, much like Baskerville. His presence had generated a flurry of activity, sending men to the phones, databases active and open to verify the identity and assignment of the interloper. Sherlock was left to his own for forty seven-minutes. On the forty-eighth, Borovic pushed the heavy iron door open, carrying another metal chair which he set down across from the existing one in the center of the room. He stepped to the side as a higher ranking officer moved into the room. The man’s movements were fluid, easy and he wore his dress uniform like Sherlock wore his Armani. 

"Mr. Kasun. Do have a seat."

The heavy thud of the door slamming shut punctuated his instruction. 

Sherlock strolled to the chair from his inspection of the one way window. His frame folded down onto the chair, giving him the appearance of someone smaller for the moment. ‘Fucked’ floated across the room in front of him. Sherlock's face twisted for a split second before he schooled himself to look at the commanding officer.

"Gentlemen. I really must be going soon. I've appreciated the hospitality."

Borovic hovered in the corner of the room, just inside the shadows, lingering as a quiet force at the officer's disposal. 

"I am Major Nedic. I am interested in who you are and who you are working for. There is no need for this to become unduly uncomfortable for you." 

Sherlock gazed at him, his features were slack, at ease, no worry lines anywhere. He gave off the air of someone comfortable, "As I told your man. I was sent to test security."

Nedic kept his posture as he sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock, back erect, hands folded on his lap. "By whom, and for what purpose?"

Sherlock's posture changed, his back straightened, his voice grew haughty, "If you cannot discern the purposed of security testing, I am afraid I cannot help you. Your inability to comprehend why such a secure place might need to be tested does not speak well for your abilities to help run it, Major Nedic."

Nedic tipped his head a minute degree to Borovic before returning his focus to Sherlock. He spoke as though he'd not just activated the muscle in the room. Sherlock's hands were pulled behind his back, elbows bending around the metal of the chair, wrists placed in metal cuffs which were cinched down to their tightest setting. Sherlock could feel the blood flow slow in his hands, the tightening of the skin as his hands grew red. 

"Anto Kasun is deceased as of three days ago. Influenza, of all things. Commandant Loncar has been gracious and extended his condolences. Close to your height and build, low-lying and unlikely to be mobile, very clever. I will admit, the documents you presented were masterful, so well done on that front. Now. How unpleasant will this have to get?"

“Your information is wrong." Sherlock clicked his tongue in irritation. "Obviously I am quite alive and in front of you. Shall we try again?" The handcuffs made a small racket as he shifted. "Let me go and get on with my jobs." His mind was already busy shelving things across his place, locking things away before they could be tortured out of him. Mycroft's face flashed across the front of his mind and he blinked him away. Concentration was key, he could not count on his brother, not when he'd gone to great lengths to hide where he was going. Not without admitting he’d been wrong to come alone.

Nedic stood then, tucking his round cover under his arm, moving a step back from Sherlock. "This is Yesen Borovic. I've found him to be a very pleasant and understanding man. A word of caution though, his fuse is quite short and entirely explosive. When you decide that your employer's interests are not worth your suffering, there is a hot meal and a warm bed for you." 

He nodded at that and looked over at the massive man. Sherlock turned his gaze to Yesen. Figures sprang up beside him 1.87 meters, seventeen stone. The old scar from eyebrow to jaw that puckered in a deep ridge, giving his otherwise handsome features a sinister look, was from a knife fight, not his service. He fit the part as though cast by someone for those Hollywood made movies John was always watching.

Borovic settled down in the chair, knees splayed, heavy boots on the outside of Sherlock's feet as he pulled out a package of smokes, the cellophane crinkling as he tapped one out. The door closed behind them as the light from his butane burned brighter than the bulb for a moment. "Do you smoke?"

Sherlock watched Nedic go eyes narrowed in thought. His gaze slid back to Borovic as he answered, tone polite. "Nicotine patches. When he threatens someone with you... Does it ever work to tell them there is a hot meal and warm bed?" He peered at the warm glow of the cigarette and nodded to it, "Though I have been thinking of starting again."

Borovic gave him a predatory smile around the filter caught between his teeth, leaning back in the chair and taking the cigarette from his mouth. As he spoke, tendrils of white smoke curled up and hovered around the bulb above them. "After a few days, nearly always. I, like you I suspect, am quite adept at what I do. I will tell you, financial negotiations can be made. If there is a sum of money over you, that can likely be matched." 

He leveled a hard look at Sherlock, his foot sliding back on the dusty concrete floor as he leaned forward. "This will end very poorly for you. You seem a clever man, above the caliber I typical am tasked to extract. I'd rather not do irrecoverable harm. Come, strike a deal."

Sherlock's smile was warm, relaxed, as though he were chatting with John. "No money to be made or had here I'm afraid. If I cannot convince you of my intentions to test your security, then I believe we find ourselves at, what is the French word for it? Impasse?" The handcuffs chimed again as he attempted to ease the strain in his hands. "I'll likely be much worse off, much quicker if you don't loosen the cuffs my dear Borovic."

His mind was not still as he spoke to Borovic. Every calculation of escape ran through his head. Numbers and routes flashed in and out of his mind as he sat there. One by one he discarded them.

Borovic reached down and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's bicep. He pulled him to his feet, the difference in height and weight allowing him to do it with ease. He marched Sherlock with him down the stone-lined hall. It was damp, and smelled of decay and mold over a layer of dust. The new room was only a few meters away. Once in he pushed Sherlock down into a chair beside the heavy iron door and clicked on the light. 

Sherlock looked around the room as he exhaled smoke through his nose. He leaned out, opening his mouth. There was a brilliant scattering of sparks as the butt hit the ground beside his boot. His eyes flicked to every surface, searching for a possible weapon. 

He took in the long table, similar to those in Molly's morgue along the far right of the wall. Eyes fell on the various brushed-steel cabinets scattered through the room. There was a single mattress already washed rust-red tucked in a corner. Chained restraints hung in various locations, and a drain dipped the floor in the center of the room. The lighting was poor, save a single massive floodlight over the steel table. 

Borovic’s voice was generous as he watched Sherlock, "Of course, there is another room with vodka and bread. The choice is yours."

All the things he could fashion into weapons were in the cabinets then. A deep, soft breath was exhaled with care. "Nice room. You seem confident in your work. Vodka is tempting, prefer a decent scotch whisky though. No offense meant to potatoes of course. I just prefer a malt based drink these days."

Borovic shook his head. He caught Sherlock’s scruff as he doubled forward from the sharp blow he landed just below his diaphragm. "I do hope it is worth all of this," Borovic intoned as he shut the door behind them with the sole of his heavy boot. He dragged the still gasping Sherlock into the room, dropping him down to his knees and pushing his head down with a massive hand wrapped around the back of Sherlock's neck. "Don't pass out. Breathe. Passing out will not end well for you.”

Sherlock bowed his head under the pressure. His cap was lost to the blow and Sherlock's hair that had been trapped by it, brushed the floor. The sound of wheezing filled the air as his chest heaved. His uniform rustled as he shifted, trying to find a less painful position. The burning in his lungs resulted in a tear dripping off his nose. In his hypersensitive state, Sherlock would have sworn he heard it hit the floor with a resounding thud.

Borovic unclasped Sherlock's hands, sliding the cuffs back into his pocket before grabbing him up by his hair and collar, dragging him to the furthest wall. In the next few minutes, he hand Sherlock strung up, back to the bricks, arms sprawled out as though crucifying him, enough slack that Sherlock could bend his knees. "Are you certain I cannot have your name?"

“Anto Kasun.” Sherlock’s voice shook as he answered. His chest had settled into harsh breaths rather than the heaving gasps for air he’d been doing moments before. Borovic’s face came back into focus as Sherlock looked up to him. His curls brushed the very tops of his shoulders. The corners of his mouth twitched up.

"Breathing is going to become very difficult for you, friend," Borovic drawled just before driving his fist into the same place on Sherlock’s abdomen, more than enough force to bruise the diaphragm. "How about only your first name? Surely you can spare that. Just the first." Borovic stepped back, body dropped to a crouch to look at Sherlock's face. Borovic’s own was arranged in gentle sympathy. "We've not yet begun. You've not shaken hands with pain. Pain has yet to walk in the room. Do put that mind to work, consider your options."

Sherlock’s mouth worked in a silent scream before air rushed in again and he wheezed, a rattling pained sound. He moaned out his breath. His chest once again heaved. It was almost two full minutes before he could speak again, “Anto. My name is Anto Kason.”

"Shame." Borovic turned away from Sherlock, heading to the cabinets. "If you are going to be difficult, I'd rather not work up a sweat just so soon. You are very thin, likely to bleed in your belly. Have to be careful of that." He drew out a small rolled kit, the black canvas was creased, frays here and there on the material. "You though, you can sweat." 

He set the kit on the floor beside Sherlock and tugged his utility knife from the holster on his belt, cutting the sleeve just at Sherlock's elbow, the point of the blade dragging up to the cuff and fanning open. "Oh my, bit of a habit," he remarked of the track lines inside Sherlock's elbow. He parted the fabric with gentle fingers before sheathing the blade. "Now, don't laugh at me at the start, you have to really wait for this method to become effective. I think you'll find it quite persuasive."

He picked up the kit with a wink and began to unroll it there on the dusty floor. A series of large-gauge needles glinted against the black canvas. He drew out three, crassly holding the rounded ends of two of them between his lips. He drove one, much larger than what a physician would use in a blood donation, horizontally under the meat of Sherlock's forearm. In short order, the other two were in, making Sherlock's skin ridge up with the bulks of the needles there, as long as Sherlock's middle finger. "Here's the trick," he said as thin lines of blood began to slide down Sherlock's arm. 

He removed from the kit a small box with several wire attachments. He slid the box in Sherlock breast pocket and affixed the copper wires to the rounded ends of the large needles, winking at him as he clicked it on. "Give it time, when you feel like talking to me, I'm all ears."

Sherlock watched the needles, bile lodged in his throat. His breaths came in sharp pants. He shifted his gaze to Borovic. Calculations ran through his mind. Given the power levels of the area they were in, ambient temperature, the width and composition of the wires, Sherlock extrapolated he had maybe five minutes before the needles became uncomfortable, ten before they started doing true damage, and perhaps twenty before they started cooking the meat in his arm.

His arm jerked back and forth, tendons cording up in his arm as he tried to shake the needles. "Don't do this." 

Borovic slid a hand in his pocket and shrugged, "I will very happily stop, my friend, if you give me something to chew on for a while. What is your first name? Drop Anto, there is no point in this where we will simply say that you must have been truthful in your ruse. Anto Kasun is dead and gone." He stepped forward and patted Sherlock's shoulder, giving it a squeeze, "Come now, friend, no reason for this to be so unpleasant. The heat... it is quite painful." 

Sherlock's mind threw images at him. Names flitted across his vision. He latched onto one as dragged it back. Sherlock's eyes were wide for a moment as he switched to French, the words tumbled out of him in a rush. His tone took on a frightened quality. "Graham, my name is Graham. I am a French national."

His mind supplied him with the lengths of time it would take for them to track down his newest incarnation as false. The range was too broad. Minutes to days flashed up and he shook his head, the words disappearing.

Borovic gave him a warm smile as he reached down and clicked the switch off, though he did not withdraw the needles. "Ah, wonderful!" He stepped back, spreading his hands wide, "I do not speak French. Tell me both of your names, Graham, so that we can put this unpleasantness behind us."

Sherlock took in measured breaths, the ride and fall of his chest counted out to the sixteenth note in his head. "Graham Lestrade." His Adam's apple bobbed, belying what appeared to be nerves. He switched back to Serbian for Borovic. "I am a French national." 

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lestrade," Borovic said with a bow, turning his head and thumbing the mike on his shoulder radio, his words fast as he relayed the information. There was a confirmation the information had been understood and Borovic looked back to Sherlock. "Shall we have those out then?" He moved forward and began to draw the needles out, making no move to stop the bleeding. "Would you care for a drink?"

Sherlock's head bobbed in assent, "Please." Reprieve of even minutes counted. Every single second that ticked by took him one step closer to devising something, or if it came to the worst, Mycroft got off his cake loving arse and found him. "Thank you." Sherlock's voice shook with nerves but was laced with gratitude. The part of his brain not concentrating on the ruse sped off in several different directions working to get him out of his situation.

Borovic smiled at him and pulled a flask from the pocket against his calf, untwisting the steel lid and stepping closer. "Only vodka, Graham, no whiskey until this is no longer your room." He tipped the lip of the flask to Sherlock's lips, allowing him a few good swallows before pulling it away. "Now we wait!" 

Sherlock and Borovic did not speak so much as side-eye one another as the minutes went by. Sherlock's voice sounded, baritone filling the space of the room. "You would not consider letting me sit down would you?"

He was interrupted by a man slipping into the room. He spoke in hushed tones to Borovic. "Still working on his identity. So far, nothing. We have no way of knowing if he is lying, or if it is just because he is a spy. Major Nedic says no reason to push just yet. Just updating you in person. He did not want the radio used for this."

A world away, the senior of the Holmes brothers was digging his fingers into his temples as Anthea dropped the fizzing seltzer into a glass of ice water. He nodded his thanks, picking up the condensation-slick glass and bringing it to his lips, microscopic reactive bubbles leaping up onto his nose, making him crinkle his expression as he drank it down in one go. He set the glass down, chalky residue ringing the inner glass, and dragged a cloth over his face. "Where are we with the Italians?" He asked as he got to his feet, stripped down to trousers and waistcoat, socked feet on the carpet. The hour was ungodly and there was no end in sight. 

Anthea gave him a detailed answer, laying out names and requested favors -and in the case of one Andrio Cardinale, demands- in exchange for work necessary to break Russian intel. He was a scant twenty-four hours advanced, now only five days behind his baby brother. It was not good enough by half. He sighed and began giving instruction, authorizing all but the request of several F-18s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heed the torture warnings.

Sherlock clung to his legs as he stared at the cell door. His gaze moved to the bread and vodka in the corner. He lost count of how many meals had consisted of it. He'd been perpetually drunk for thirty-six hours of the past seventy-two as they attempted to trip him up in his story of being Frenchman Graham Lestrade.

Borovic walked in sometime after the lunch hour, a file in his hand. “Lestrade,” he exclaimed as he walked over to Sherlock, dragging the metal chair across the concrete and stopping just before he hit the filthy mattress Sherlock was sitting on. He held the file up with a wink and opened it as he spoke to him. “Well! It turns out you’ve a very common name, and we are having trouble narrowing down which of these Graham’s you are. So, we are going to play a little game. I’m going to tell you about yourself, and you are going to tell me when the description fits. Easy, no?” 

Sherlock looked at him, a small smile twitching the corners of his mouth up. “Games? How very progressive and fun of you, Borovic. I didn’t know you cared enough to keep me entertained. Mind if I have the vodka first?” A slender finger pointed to his untouched lunch tray.

Borovic followed Sherlock’s finger with his eyes and then looked back, laughing with him. “Why of course, I’d not keep you from your meal! Please, I’ve all the time in the world for you today. Nothing on my schedule outside of ‘Lestrade, Graham.’” He leaned back in his chair, the folder set down out of Sherlock’s reach on the dusty floor, and stretched out his legs so that the heels of his boots were resting on the mattress, fingers laced behind his head.

Sherlock leaned out and snagged the tray with a small swipe of his hand. He drew it in, knocking back half the vodka. They were going to end the day with pain. He might as well try to numb part of it. He nibbled at the bread. “Tell me, Borovik, how is the new recruit to the secure vault working out?”

Borovic clapped his hands as he leaned forward, eyes bright, interest piqued. “Oh, now this is interesting Mr. Lestrade! Are you going to tell me how you do that, or am I to be left guessing?” He smiled, face relaxed as he watched. His intrigue with the man in his care was honest and open, a rare incident .

Sherlock flicked his eyes to the shoulder of Borovic’s uniform, “I observe. You’ve dirt there on the shoulder, underground, secret vault, however you are not part of the normal guard there. You haven’t been in, hm, years? You have a must smell and new creases in the elbow of your uniform. You’ve been saluting more often, dismissing someone of a lower rank. The same dirt on your boots mixed with the melting snow. You’ve had to go outside when you usually don’t before you come and see me. Simple really.” He tilted back the rest of the vodka and hummed in approval. “Better bottle this time.”

“I’ll be damned,” Borovic said with honest admiration, “you observe. Incredible, that. Unfortunately, my friend, and I do so mean unfortunately, that will not be enough to find our way out of this regrettable room. Shall we go through the dance, or will you make an admission now?”

Sherlock nibbled at his bread. “You know, I really react better to being given things than I do pain.”

“Being given things? Are you asking me for gifts, friend? That’s not how this works.” He shook his head and picked up the folder, thumbing through it. “One of these is your cover, I suppose. So, Mr. Lestrade, which is your day job? I’ve a baker,” he eyed him for a moment before shaking his head, moving on, “or are you the food critic who writes for the New York Times?” 

Sherlock waved a hand, “Food, food is boring.” His slender fingers wiggled in the air as he dismissed the possibility. “Though something other than bread would be most welcome.”

Borovic shut the folder and dropped it to the ground. “This is the way I typically bat potential informants around. You and I both know that you are not Graham Lestrade. France is not vouching for you, and if you are secret service, well, not much for you then. Best hope for you is to not be in the service of France, and have something else to tell me. My superiors have grown impatient.” He inhaled, filling the bottom of his lungs and stood, shifting the chair back, the metal grating along the concrete. 

“Will you speak, or am I to put my skills to use?” 

Sherlock Italian rolled off his tongue, musical in the air as he spoke. “Would you believe me if I said I was Adamo Borghi?” He looked to Bororvic as he moved back to Serbian, “Italian. The eyes are a bit strange in my family, my mother’s side.”

“I only speak a bit of English outside of my native tongue. Stand up,” Borovic’s disposition was shifting as he adopted a more work-oriented persona. “Stand up.”

“We were having such a good time. Don’t you want to sit and break bread with me? What will you call me? Graham? Anto? Adamo? Oh, how about John? I like John. Do you think it suits? Closer to the truth in any case.” _Shut up you fool_. He could hear John’s voice in his head. He waved a hand at it. Too little sleep trying to devise a way out and hoarding his bread under the mattress. Vodka on an empty stomach… His mind conjured John glaring at him from the corner the same as it did words telling Sherlock everything he needed to know about Borovic. He rolled his eyes at John and flicked his hand at him. _Shoo_ he thought at the spectre.

Borovic reached down, grabbing Sherlock by his forearm and hauling him to his feet. He was close to a head taller than Sherlock. He handled him with ease as he pulled him off the mattress and dragged him across the room without speaking. He shoved Sherlock against the wall where he’d had him the first day, one hand at Sherlock’s throat for a moment before making fast work of binding one of Sherlock’s wrists to the hanging restraints on the wall. “I was honestly hoping to avoid this with you,” his cadence casual as he moved to secure the other hand, repeating the position Sherlock had first found himself in. 

“I anticipate your being a challenge. I’ve not had one in quite some time.” Borovic stepped back, watching Sherlock, observing with careful consideration. “I’m inclined to give you a final opportunity to speak before I begin.”

“Do I get to know what we’ll be doing today? I might be more inclined to speak if I knew what I was in for friend.” Sherlock watched Borovic. He was grateful for the alcohol thrumming through him. It had been no small amount. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John refused to leave. _Idiot._

“I don’t like to limit myself with planned itineraries,” came Borovic’s smooth answer. He went to the cabinets, returning after a short time with a small rolling tray. Positioned atop of it was the black canvas roll which he’d used the first day, a scalpel, and a set of needle nose pliers. “I can, however, allow you to choose how we begin.”

Sherlock looked over the instruments with raised eyebrows, “Oh, very nice, Borovic. Can we leave off the needles today? I’ve had my share of them in this lifetime. Pliers, a little overkill to start with, don’t you think? Now the scalpel. Are you any good at art? I have some designs I was thinking of. Pain that results in beauty and maybe answers for you… I think that would be the way to go. Have you got a pen? I can draw things for you to follow on me.”

Borovic listened to him with growing amusement. “Oh, now aren’t you just endlessly amusing,” he said with a grin, plucking up the black canvas roll and opening it with a slow flourish. “Your name grows less important by the day. In turn, what you’ve done, is shift the interest to your employer. Perhaps we can start with what it was you were after?” He drew out the long needles and moved forward again, two between his lip, moving back to where he’d placed them before only shifting north of the original insertion lines. When he’d put the box back in Sherlock’s pocket and clicked it on, he clapped his hands. “Nearly forgot,” he said, tone warm. He walked over to one of the furthest locked cabinets and crouched down. “Burns do so take it out of the system. We will do this by mouth for as long as we can manage.” 

He returned to Sherlock at a casual pace, a bottle of sports drink in his hand. He unscrewed the lid and offered it to Sherlock. “I will not allow you to succumb to dehydration. I’d very much recommend drinking.”

Sherlock drank, a small moan escaped him as the liquid ran down his throat. He’d not realized how raw it was from the vodka. He paused in his drinking to speak again. “Of course I can tell you what I was looking for.” He went back to the bottle, getting more of it down before Borovic could pull it away.

Borovic allowed Sherlock his fill, holding the bottle for him with a hand on his own hip, an impatient and indulgent set to his expression. When the bottle was empty, he pulled it away and looked at him with expectation. “Well?” 

Sherlock fixed Borovic with a look, eyes boring into him. “This is a secret base. I was here to steal secrets. Though, strictly speaking I was here to steal _back_ secrets someone else stole and then sold to you.” His eyebrows raised. “As I was not here for the French as you’ve so determined and I tipped my hand about not being Italian, how many other countries have you stolen or bought secrets about? I could be American with the name John, but I don’t speak English, or do I? I speak so many languages it’s difficult to keep up.”

There was a sigh from Borovic as he walked away, setting down the bottle on one of the small tables before walking away from it, back to the chair he’d been in. “When your arm begins to burn, I’m sure I will hear more of them,” he said with a shrug, picking up the metal seat and walking it over to a position closer to Sherlock. He dropped down in it, taking out his utility knife and starting in on cleaning under his fingernails. After a moment, he pointed to Sherlock with the tip of it. “Is there no one to miss you? Or rather, what’s left of you, when this entire affair is over? Perhaps think of your loved ones. Are your secrets so important?”

Sherlock looked across the room to John who was lounging on his bed. _Get off of that! It’s filthy. You’re a doctor for Christ’s sake. You should know better. Do you know what could be on that?_ He shook his head gaze returning to Borovic, banishing the disapproving John. “Afraid most of them think I am dead these days.”

“Well that’s a shame,” Borovic answered with open disinterest, checking his watch. “Where were you born?” 

“Europe. Definitely Europe.” Sherlock’s jaw worked as he spared a glance to his arm. Three minutes in. Painful, another two and he’d be trying to get loose, “I take it you were born here in Serbia? Where did you learn English?”

“Rosetta Stone,” he answered back in English, choppy and unrefined. He stood up, walking closer to Sherlock and reaching out, tapping his fingers over the visible ridges the needles created. “You seemed quite frightened of this on the first day. Has the liquid courage helped?” 

“More removed my ability to fake the fear of it at the moment. I don’t like pain as a general rule but… Eh.” Sherlock yanked on his arm, “Borovic…” His breathing changed as the pain grew. The chain holding his wrist rattled, causing an echo to sound in the room. Sherlock swallowed as he tried to retreat in his mind.

“That is my name, yes. What is yours?” He looked at Sherlock, head tilted with curiosity. Everything else in his expression showed his detachment to Sherlock’s distress, much like a child watching ants shrivel and burn under a magnifying lens. “You have the control here, give a verifiable name.”

“I would if I could. I’m dead.” Sherlock decided edging the truth would be best. His voice cracked on the words. “Borovic, take them out. _Take them out_!” His chest rose and fell in sharp movements as he tried to breathe through the pain, succeeding only in gasping.

“I will leave them for,” he tipped his watch, noting the time, “another ten minutes. After that the flesh will begin to properly cook and that is not what I’m after. Your name, ghost, tell me your name.” He spoke to him, at ease with the situation, unresponsive to Sherlock’s distress. He was neither enjoying Sherlock’s pain, nor sympathetic to it. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. John was sacrosanct. John must be protected at all costs. Two more minutes passed before Sherlock began rattling the chains in earnest, begging to be freed from the needles. He tried to hold his tongue against the the barrage of pleas in different languages.

Borovic looked up as Sherlock began to rattle off languages he did not recognize, interested in his linguistic abilities. “I do hope you are being sufficiently paid for the work you do. Skilled and this loyal to whatever your cause is? Invaluable. You are one heck of an asset to someone.” He leaned in, taking a look at Sherlock’s forearm. “You’ve another minute before this deeply scars.”

An anguished cry sounded from Sherlock. His chains chimed and echoed through the room. He set to repeating John’s name. The John in his mind told him to stuff it, but he could not.

Curious, Borovic tipped his head to the side. “Are you already calling out for someone?” He asked, interested in the man before him. He tapped his lip as Sherlock called out to John, his tone telling him that ‘John’ was not this man’s name, rather his request. “Focus, friend. You’ve four minutes left. Or, you could simply tell me your name and be done with it.”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut again. His breathing through his nose was loud and ragged. Another minute ticked past, “Dead men have no names.” Sherlock swayed in his bindings. His vision swam and disapproving John in the corner shook his head.

Borovic reached up and patted Sherlock’s cheek, “Don’t black out. We don’t black out in this room. You’ve a name, and I will have it, the only question is what of your body you are willing to sacrifice to keep it secret?” He checked his watch again, the scent of burning flesh beginning to waft through the room.

The John his brain had conjured to keep him company watched and Sherlock locked eyes with him. His jaw tightened and his chest heaved as he attempted to stay up. John was all that mattered. Just John. It always came back to John. Sherlock became aware of a shrill sound in the air. After a few moments he realized the sound was coming from him. He begged in French and Serbian for Borovic to take the needles out.

When the ten minutes were reached, Borovic dropped his hand to Sherlock’s breast pocket and clicked off the electrical box. “Going to have to let those cool for a moment,” he said of the actual needles, too hot to be pulled without risking burns to himself. “You are shaking, my ghostly friend, have you had enough?”

“Of course I’ve had enough you idiot!” Sherlock snapped at the man as he tried to get his breathing back under control. It burned. Sherlock’s eyes dimmed for a minute as his brain shuttered him away. He did not pass out. 

_John tilted his hand back and forth, “You are an idiot, Sherlock. You’re practically a chemist. You knew that reaction could burn you.” Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “Just bandage me so I can get back to my experiments, John.”_

The cool, damp room faded back in and Sherlock shook his head.

The needles slid out with great difficulty, patches of skin sticking to the metal, ripping free of his arm. Borovic clicked his tongue in frustration each time he had to work to dislodge one. “Had you told me your name, this would be the end of it. Proper meal, water, whiskey, pain relief and a bed,” he explained, tugging the last one free and dropping it in the little basin with the others. 

“It is early on, but I would so like to avoid any severe damage. In light of that, I’ll ask you how fond you are of your fingernails?”

Sherlock looked up to him, “Rather fond. Fingers and nails, thank you. Do you play an instrument? I do. Violin. Please, don’t ruin that for me.”

“If dead men cannot have names, they surely cannot play the violin,” Borovic rejoined, stepping back and sliding his hands in his pockets. “Come now, friend, I am sure there is a position to be found for you here. You could start a life. Anything you can offer me so that I can grant you a reprieve?”

“I came here of my own volition. I am not working for any government agency.” Sherlock met Borovic’s eyes. He did not flinch and he did not look away. There was a truth and a finality to his words that could not be denied.

Bovoric drove his fist into Sherlock's gut, clicking his tongue in disappointed irritation. "If you are working for yourself, you've done a shit job of it my friend." In the next moment, before Sherlock could recover, he caught him across the face hard enough to bloody him, teeth and soft tissue of lips and cheek colliding. Without pause, he grabbed Sherlock's burned forearm and pressed his thumb into the blistering, still-hot skin and leaned in, "What is your name?" 

Sherlock was reeling. His mind stuttered and threw up useless information. Pi is 3.1415926535. The Earth goes round the sun. _Shut up, John_! The room echoed with his screams as blood dripped down his chin and jaw. "Hamish! Hamish Anderson!" Sherlock was panting, blood splattered as his chest heaved, making his mouth a morbid airbrush.

Borovic let go of Sherlock's arm and pulled a cloth from his pocket, wiping off his hands. He kept his eyes on Sherlock as he thumbed the radio, swift as he relayed the information. When the tinny voice over the speakers went quiet, Borovic walked over to the fridge and yet again drew out two bottles of water. He stood by the knee-high icebox and drank his down in one go, twisting the cap on the other as he walked over to Sherlock. 

"Don't black out, friend," he warned, drizzling the water of the back of Sherlock's neck. He was slow as he moved the water to the top of Sherlock’s head. When he'd poured out half the bottle on him, he brought the rest to Sherlock's lips. "Drink."

Sherlock groaned before taking a mouthful of water. The water could be heard sloshing in his mouth as he tried to ease the pain of the cuts. He spat the water out well in the other direction so as not to his Borovic. He took a drink and let the water slide down his throat. 

The tension in his shoulders eased as he stood there. His body trembled as he struggled to stay upright though. “Let me go. I could do so much work.”

Borovic sat back down, laughing. "Work? You are suggesting I let you down and allow you to work? You insult me, friend. How foolish would I have to be to allow an unknown, highly intelligent entity to work with my country's most valued secrets. You amuse me." 

The radio crackled, volume too low for Sherlock to hear. He nodded and thumbed the radio, expressing his understanding before looking back to Sherlock. 

"You will tell me the country you are from, and your identification number, or I will begin breaking bones."

"I don't _have_ an identification number. _I am dead_!" Broken bones were unacceptable. John. _John_. He looked to the bed. John shook his head at Sherlock. _Give him something, Sherlock_. Sherlock muttered aloud in Pashto to John. "Why are you here? You were nothing but a hallucination brought on by too little food, sleep, and alcohol." The John on the bed laughed. _You need the company. You won't even conjure anyone else up. Stuck with me I'm afraid you big git._ Sherlock breath huffed out in irritation, Pashto still on his lips, "You are a giant pain in my arse, you know that?" John laughed as he had that first night. Head thrown back against the wall of the cell. _I'm the pain in the arse? I think you're dead you bloody idiot. Come home. Get out of this and just come home._

Borovic stared at Sherlock for a moment, a brow arched. "Oh, friend. Don't tell me you are one of the converts, come up on your own Jihad?" He was speaking into his radio, thinking he recognized the language, but unsure. He shook his head and stepped back, considering him. "Come now, tell me the truth. Clean, warm bed. Medicine for your pain. A scotch and a proper meal. Come now." 

Sherlock turned his attention back to Bororvic, a few words in Pashto for John, "Hold on, John." He held a finger up to his hallucination. Was it a hallucination if he knew he was doing it? He'd have to research that later. Sherlock looked over Borovic. His eyes traveled along his face, noting tiny details before he was once again speaking Serbian, "I am not a convert. Religion is a stupid social construct for the idiotic masses to make themselves feel better about what is a cruel and unfair world."

Borovic cracked a hearty laugh and nodded, clapping his hands, "We will cancel the priest then," he joked, moving forward and taking Sherlock's right hand in his own. "You are left handed, yes? So we will start with the right. I'd rather not. Tell me what country you are from, give me your identification number."

Left handed? Sherlock looked around in confusion. "Start with- are you going to _break my fingers_!?" The rattling of chains was close to deafening in the room as Sherlock struggled. Not his violin. They couldn't take his violin from him. Frantic Pashto fell out of his mouth, "John, help me. You helped me before. You shot him. For God's sake _help me_." 

John looked sad and pushed himself off the bed. In the next moment he was next to Sherlock, whispering in his ear. _Give him something. Anything, Sherlock. Give him something so you can come home to me._ Sherlock's breath seized in his chest as John kissed his cheek. He broke into a scattered sob when the image was gone, leaving him alone again in the cell with Borovic.

Borovic sighed as he took hold of Sherlock's pointer and pushed back until the bone gave just above the largest knuckle. "Are you quite sure this is how you want this done," he asked conversationally as he took hold of the middle finger, following in kind, leaving Sherlock's fingers bent back at odd angles, holding the third, giving Sherlock a moment to answer. 

Sherlock sobbed, choking on the words, “Identification number two two one bravo one six. British. On my own. Baker, my last name is Baker.”

Borovic pulled out his flask as the men ran the numbers. "Alright, Baker, have a drink and breathe." He unscrewed the metal cap and held it out for Sherlock to pull at the vodka. 

Sherlock took a few deep pulls at the vodka. He coughed at the rough burn it snaked down his throat. “Oh God, set them back. Set them back _please_.” He hung his head down, panting. Mycroft would know he was in trouble. Now all that was left was for Mycroft to _find_ him.

John’s voice sounded in his ear, _Git, should have just told him to start with_. Sherlock muttered in Pashto, “Do shut up, John. I’m in pain. Could you not be so smug while I’m hurting?”

"Mr. Holmes," Anthea whispered, touching Mycroft's shoulder. He opened his eyes, the pupils constricting as he drew in a deep breath, looking first at her and then to his office in an attempt to gauge the hour by the light. Still dark. He sat up, hair mostly in place, waistcoat, Oxford, and dress trousers still in place as he checked his watch. Just after three in the morning. He'd slept an hour. 

"Sherlock has activated the panic code." 

Mycroft was on his feet, ignoring his shoes, moving swiftly to his desktop as he smoothed his hair down. His fingers flew over the keyboard for the next half minute, logging in through checkpoint after secure checkpoint until he was at the Intelligence Mainframe, leaning in as he clicked on the blinking red link. 

"Still in Serbia," he said softly, watching as MI6 worked at the feed, intercepting the Serbian's making an effort to verify a name and serial number. "Damn," he swore under his breath. Sherlock had given them one of three codes they had established beforehand. He'd thrown the Hail Mary; it was dire.

Anthea, of course, already knew this. "We've every available man and woman on it. I've called in the ambassador, he's away on business until the day after tomorrow. His aids have offered to send in his assistant, I've not set that meeting up yet." She doubted Mycroft would deal with anyone else in such a delicate case. Mycroft nodded to her, standing and sliding on his suit coat before moving to put on his shoes. "Get the car, we are moving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is finished. There's just some ironing to do. Should be completed by Monday or Tuesday evening! (Probably Monday!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've previously read chapter 2, please go back and re-read. Just before the end of it there is a bit more interaction between Sherlock and his guard that was accidentally left out when first uploaded. Tiny really, but there.
> 
> Again, heed the warning.

Mycroft walked beside Anthea through the lower halls of MI6, his coffee in her hand, her tablet in his. He thumbed through the live feed of intel as they walked, mind racing as he mentally called up dignitaries and the lords of crime in the region. Moriarty had given them two names, men of Serbian descent, presently sitting in lock-up while INTERPOL sorted out the red tape. Otherwise, they had very little interaction with the Serbs, not much of Moriarty's web stretched across that country. It had been an oddity that Sherlock had vanished there, at least to Mycroft's current understanding. 

He did not speak until they walked into the Situation Room, nodding to the familiar pool of faces. He sat down, tablet in front of him, taking his coffee from Anthea before she stepped back against the wall with the other aids. "Gentlemen, Ladies, shall we begin?" 

Across the world, Borovic snapped Sherlock's bones back into position and untethered him from the wall, dragging him back over to the mattress and dropping him down. "Do not fall asleep. If I find you sleeping, I will devise my own ways to keep you awake."

Sherlock leaned back against the wall. “No sleeping.” He nodded his understanding as he cradled his fingers. With a grimace he touched them, probing the breaks. He closed his eyes as a whimper tore out of his throat. Painful, but they would heal well if left alone. Borovic knew what he was doing, they were clean snaps.

Borovic nodded and got to his feet, walking to the door. "There will be no more food or water until you've given us something we can verify. I do hope for your sake this is not another decoy, or we will have to begin torturing you, Mr. Baker." With that, he walked into the hallway, shutting the heavy door behind him. 

Upstairs, he settled into his seat after washing his hands for the better part of five minutes, weeping serum from the deep burns, along with splatters of blood, had worked their way up his wrists. He rolled up his sleeves, unwrapped a sandwich, and kept one eye on the surveillance feed while listening to the live-stream of intelligence they were pulling from the number. 

MI5 was hitting back, feeding bogus data on Jack Baker, an operative confirmed to be in service the last five years. They did not hand over much else while the plan was being hatched to locate him. 

Sherlock stared at John. "You're not here." John's mouth twitched close to a smile. _I'm always with you, Sherlock. Just like even though I think you're dead, you're with me._ "That's ridiculous. Sentiment constructed to make people feel better when the heart stops and a person ceases to exist." John nodded to him. _You're absolutely right. And you know what? It helps. You should get some of that bread you've squirreled away and eat it. You need it. Doctor's orders._ Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "One should always listen to his doctor." He moved off the filthy mattress and found his small stash. Sherlock nibbled at the stale bread, glad to have anything to put on his stomach.

"He is MI5," Nedic said to Borovic as he came to sit down beside him. "No record of his mission, though that is hardly surprising. British citizen, five years of service." 

Borovic narrowed his eyes, watching Sherlock eat, shaking his head. "No. That does not fit. He is not MI5. Nothing military about him." Nedic laughed at that assertion, showing Borovic a printout. "This is why you are paid to extract and not sitting intel. I want to know exactly what he was after and why." 

Sherlock counted minutes until he lost count around one hundred and sixty. He recited pi to the hundredth place... eighteen times. His body was running on too little sleep and too little food, too much stress, pain, and vodka. John petted his hair, _Stay awake, Sherlock. Stay awake._ "Trying. Quit petting my hair." John chuckled. _You never wanted human contact while you were here. Now that you have me conjured up, I can't keep my hands off of you. What does that say Mr. Holmes?_ Sherlock muttered at him to, "Shut up." His head jerked up and he looked around wild eyed. John was gone. Had he drifted off?

The detective sat up straighter before pulling himself to his feet. He paced the cell in a wobbling unsteady gait. He spoke as he moved back and forth. For hours he ranted at a reappeared John about past cases, never staying in one language more than one sentence. It would be hell for anyone to translate on their own, well, anyone other than Mycroft.

As the hours passed, Sherlock’s gate grew more unsteady until John urged him to sit down and have another piece of the bread. Sherlock found one and settled back in. He ate it in measured bites. His movements slowed until he listed to the side, crust of bread still clutched in his hand. The events of the the past day caught up with him as Borovic and company mined for intel on him. The stale bread shattered on the floor beside the small mattress and the first soft snore sounded in the cell.

Borovic had enjoyed a five hour stretch of sleep before a lower aid came knocking, letting him know that Sherlock was sleeping. He stretched, and took the next half hour to change, shower, and eat. When he finally made his way down to Block C, he had a large bucket at his side, frigid water sloshing along the rim. He had, at his side, a younger man of twenty-two, shorter and well muscled. Yuri had assisted him several times before, and already knew the drill. He walked in and grabbed Sherlock by the neck and shoulder, dragging him away from his mattress and dropping him to the floor just over the drain, stepping out of the way just as Borovic doused the near-freezing water over him. 

"I did warn you, Baker, that sleep was no good for you."

The anguished cry reverberated around the room. Sherlock babbled in English, "Sorry. I'm sorry. I tried!" He spluttered as he tried to stand, to shake off the freezing water. His chest worked hard. Sherlock sent water flying from his mouth as it dripped down. 

"Come now, Baker, you are MI5 so surely this must be simple to deal with," Borovic said with sarcasm, still not buying the idea that this man was what they said. Yuri hauled Sherlock up and then pushed him to the flat of his back, a boot at Sherlock's throat as he leaned down and sliced off the row of buttons at Sherlock's chest. In the next moment he'd pulled at the sodden material, dragging the sleeves off, no mind to the long lines of horrible burning or Sherlock's fingers. 

A massive, livid bruise fanned out from the center of Sherlock's abdomen where Borovic had been striking him. Yuri grabbed Sherlock and hauled him up, dragging him to the metal table and putting him on his back, strapping his hands down far out at his sides. When he was done, he clicked on the harsh floodlight hanging over the metal and stepped away. Borovic walked up to Sherlock with his blade in hand. "What were you after, Mr. Baker?" 

Sherlock winced at the floodlight. His body sang with pain as he shivered on the table. He moved back to Serbian as he spoke. Sherlock appeared to give up all air of pretending he was not an operative and his voice grew stronger. He angled his chin and watched Borovic, "I told you. I was after secret plans you were sold. I'm British. Have you bought more than one set in the recent past?"

"This is not the time to be smart," Borovic warned, setting the blade over Sherlock's left wrist and dragging out a shallow, rectangular outline. "Would you like to see how your dominant hand works? Little window here is always fascinating. Or you could always get into specifics, the choice is yours."

"I do not know." Sherlock confessed. The shallow cuts did not bother him. The drag of the sharp knife was not awful in that condition. He continued letting Borovic think he was left-handed. "I just knew I was looking for paperwork. Not computer files."

Borovic arched a brow and reached his hand back, slipping the blade into the sheath before reaching out to Yuri, who tucked the scalpel into his hand. He traced back over the rectangle he'd made, the length of one of his own fingers, width running the span of Sherlock's wrist. Slowly he began to dig the blade deeper, clearly intent on taking off the layers of skin. "You know, everything hurts when an area of skin is missing. Hard to protect the ligaments and tendons, hard to keep it clean. Do you have specifics on the _paperwork_ you were after?" 

Sherlock's mind threw pages in front of him. His eyes narrowed and darted side to side as he scanned through them. Something was there, something he could almost remember. His eyes widened and he looked up to Borovic. "You do realize, of course, that one of your agents is doubling with the Americans?" 

Borovic drew his hand back, watching lines of blood well up along Sherlock's wrist, though abandoning his effort. "Is that so? Well, dear Baker, that would buy you some time. Which agent? I'll leave you alone if you can tell me something useful."

"Ilic. First initial is S. I don't know more than that other than he helped get the plan for the American drones you're trying to build for yourself." Sherlock watched him as the cold of the metal table wicked heat away from him. "It's the truth." A tremor ran through his voice and his teeth sounded as they clattered together.

Borovic pointed to Yuri. "Go, handle it. Right to Nedic." 

He waited as the younger man left without hesitation, looking down at Sherlock and shaking his head. "What are you doing here, ghost? This is not the place for a mind like yours." He trailed his fingers over Sherlock's abdomen, slowly pressing down in the center of the angry bruise, intentionally making it difficult for Sherlock to breathe. He leaned in then, pressing down harder. "You have not fooled _me_. You are not MI5, and I will have it from you who you are and why you are here." 

In the next moment, he drove his fist hard to the right side of Sherlock's ribs, the pure intention to cause pain without major damage.

Sherlock didn't scream, the pain stole his voice. He wheezed out, "Jack Baker. I told you why I was here." He panted as he tried to breathe in a regular manner again. "Jack Baker." He looked at Borovic. "If you let me up, let me back to your files, I can tell you every double agent you have in your employee and who they are working for. You know they're there." Time, Sherlock needed time. _Mycroft_ needed time.

"You are trying my patience now," he warned, picking his utility knife off his hip again, pressing the tip of the blade to Sherlock's collar bone, dragging it down and across his chest, deep enough that were medical attention available, they'd stitch it to save the scarring. He pulled the blade away just above the wing of Sherlock's hip. "Alright, _Jack Baker_ , we will see how your information pans out. Do not sleep." 

He left the glaring light on above Sherlock, dousing the dim bulbs in the rest of the room. "Don't sleep!" he reminded, walking out of the room to go check the intel. 

\---

The lights flooded on in Mycroft's office. "I want him recovered in the next seventy-two hours. I want him _found_ in the next three. I will begin terminating positions on the half hour, I will hear no excuses for failure. There are plenty of young minds to replace all of yours, should they prove lacking." His voice was low and cold, stress and failure corroding his ability to remain detached and efficient. 

Anthea handed him a rare mug of coffee as he killed the intercom and set a bottle of his migraine medication by his hand.

\---

Sherlock looked up as John smoothed his too-long hair. _Time Sherlock. Get Mycroft some time. Hang in here. Afraid that’s going to scar. I can’t stitch it for you. I know you’re vain._ He could almost feel John’s fingers pressing to his chest. _But I think it will only add to your charm._ Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Okay brain, stop pushing it.” John chuckled. _Hang in there for me, Sherlock. Stay awake this time._

He didn’t think he could go to sleep with his chest stringing and aching as it did. His body shivered on the table, making every ache he had even worse.

Sherlock was left exactly as he was for three full days. No one came into the room in all that time. When Sherlock's eyes would slowly fall closed, ear-splitting music would blare over the speakers, the light above him pulsing rapidly. 

It was Yuri who walked in first, moving to Sherlock's side and unlatching his hands, silent as he hauled Sherlock off the table and dragged him over to the drain. Again they doused Sherlock before Yuri handed him a single bottle of water. "Drink," he clipped, not giving Sherlock a second to respond before grabbing his hair and wrenching his head back. " _Drink!_ " He pulled the water away and began to pour it into Sherlock's mouth, draining the whole of the bottle despite Sherlock's struggle. 

As Sherlock was catching his breath back, Yuri put him to the wall, only this time Sherlock's face was pressed against the stone, back exposed. Borovic strode in with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. "Mr. Baker, I've missed you!"

Sherlock felt every disgusting pull of filthy clothing against his body. The chains rattled as he struggled to keep his feet. "Mr. Borovic. I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me." Sherlock's voice trembled. He was cold and exhausted, hungry and filthy. His brain refused to work in any semblance of normal, even for a normal person. John flitted in and out like a ghost in a horrible made-for-tv movie.

"Forget you? Never, little ghost. Who is John?" He asked as he went to his cabinet. "You've been chattering to him in more languages than I can count, not that I've particularly tried. Real person, or figment of your imagination?" He walked back over to Sherlock, coming to stand just at his back, reaching out and sliding his fingers down Sherlock's skin. He tutted, shaking his head. "Feverish. That's not good."

Sherlock laughed, "John? John is everything." John gave him a disapproving stare from the corner. "Oh, don't look at me like that." Sherlock snapped to him. "Coffee smells good." He was babbling as he pressed his forehead against the wall.

"You are losing your mind, Baker, are you aware? I'd rather not work you today. No. What I'd prefer to do is allow you a hot shower and a bed. Would you like that? I just need to know what you were after. It's so very easy. You just tell me the paperwork you wanted, and I won't put this leather to your back. Come now, see reason." He gave the whip a little, short snap just behind Sherlock's back so that he could hear it. "I'm very good with this you know, very skilled. Don't make me show you." 

Sherlock's laugh bubbled up before he could stop it. "Plans my dear Borovic! Plans! Military plans. I told you, I don't know. John, tell him I don't know."

Borovic moved to Sherlock's side, crouching and staring at him. "What is your name?" he asked quietly. Sherlock had been starved, made to thirst, and deprived of sleep for days. "Perhaps if you give your name, we can return you to your John?" 

Sherlock shook his head, "Jack Baker. British Intelligence. I lost John on a mission two years ago. He visits." A laugh befitting a crazed man bubbled up and Sherlock pressed his cheek to the wall as he watched John. "I'll come home, John, I promise."

Mycroft pulled on the wool parka with a scowl. It was nothing short of hateful in Serbia this time of year and the language still felt like marbles in his mouth. He'd gone over it again and again on the flight, practicing without need. He'd mastered the language in hours, the accent in days. He was alone. There was an extraction team en-route, though he had no idea how many days it would take to actually locate Sherlock. Diplomatic talks had dissolved, none of his 'friends' willing to admit the base even existed. This effort was, frankly, a move of panicked desperation. He'd not heard a sound from his brother in the fourteen days since he'd received the code. Mycroft had taken personal leave and called in every single hard earned favor he'd ever garnered for the extract team to lay in wait. That, and a good deal of the family's stored fortune. He'd never seen his frugal parents haul out the checkbook faster. 

He was meeting with a local commander under the guise of an intelligence and securities expert, there to consult on their recent breach. His breath fogged around his head as he stood on the tarmac, waiting for the vehicle to come collect him. 

Borovic returned to Sherlock's cell with a cup of steaming porridge, setting down in the chair and starting in on it, staring down at the man chained to the foot of the metal table. "How are we today, Baker? Not looking well." Sherlock's face was a mess of contusions and livid bruising, an incisor missing, lips split and cracking with dehydration. There were plenty of bruises in various states of healing along his exposed torso, and his trousers were a filthy, sodden mess. 

A hoarse whisper sounded, “Just waiting to see you Borovic. I missed you last night.” Sherlock was lucid. The times he was had grown less as the days went by. He was wracked with pain and his skin was hot. “Yuri’s not as fun as you are.”

John shook his head. _Sherlock, shut up. For once can’t you stop being a big bloody smart-arsed git?_ “No, John, I cannot. Do be quiet, Borovic is talking. Don’t be rude.”

Borovic nodded, taking another leisurely bite of his food. "We have a securities expert coming in soon. It will be interesting to hear his take on you. Must be quite good, never heard of us pulling in a contractor." He shrugged as he scraped at the bowl. With a satisfied sigh, he set it aside, brushing his hands off. "Come, you need a bit of a wash," he said warmly, as though inviting Sherlock to a steaming tub. Instead, he slid the key into the cuff tethering Sherlock to the table on the floor, pulling the metal out of bloodied skin. "You've been with us nearly a month now, did you know?" 

He spoke conversationally as he dragged Sherlock over to the drain, dropping him to the floor. He opened the large metal door and reached out, walking back in with the bucket of freezing water. "Now, don't seize on me, I've got information to get from you today before that fever cooks it off your brain." In the next moment he dumped the frigid water over Sherlock's head, stepping back to ensure he didn't get wet. 

Sherlock didn’t have the breath left in him to cry out. He shuddered underneath the treatment. His eyes closed as he gasped in a breath again. He swayed as he sat there. “A month with you. What are you getting me for our anniversary? New cuffs? New cuffs would be an excellent gift Borovic.”

There was no fight in him. He was losing hope that Mycroft would come. His brain too fevered to make connections with its normal speed.

Mycroft walked through the compound with top brass, discussing with a fair bit of difficulty the inner workings of their security detail. He strode along with them as Aleksander Nikola, word-renowned securities expert, neutral in party and faithful only to coin. He could care fuck-all about what they were saying, half his mind cataloging the drivel they were telling him of their incredibly poor security, keeping his eyes and ears open for Sherlock. It had been three days since he'd arrived, and his patience was thin and his nerves nearly shot. He was beginning to worry he was too late. 

"Aleksander, would you be interested in listening in on an interrogation. The man who set this in motion is still here. MI5, of all things. After _paperwork_ he says. Very tight-lipped." 

Mycroft's heart dropped out and he schooled himself. He checked his watch as though pressed for time and sighed. "I suppose I could look in on this, yes." 

Borovic's radio blipped at him and he listened closely, frowning in Sherlock's direction. "Understood." He got up and moved over to Sherlock, grabbing him by the scruff and hauling him to his feet. "Well now, we're to have an audience today. Can you walk, or am I to carry you?"

Sherlock looked at him as he pulled himself to his full height, "I am fine." His entire frame shook as he tried to keep his feet. "Are you an exhibitionist Borovic? I didn't think you'd want to share me. I thought we had something special." His corners of his mouth twitched up in an approximation of a smile. Sherlock looked like a feral animal rather than human for a moment.

"Carry on, my dear Borovic, carry on."

Borovic looked down at the man with a wide grin, "Oh, my ghost, you've been more than I could have hoped for." He took Sherlock by the bicep and hissed. "Very hot today, can't be good for you." He moved them out into the frigid hall, no mind for Sherlock's bare feet or chest, walking fast enough to trip Sherlock up, dragging him when he stumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft to the rescue at last.

Mycroft was seated in one of the grungiest rooms he'd had the great displeasure to occupy in some time. He had been expecting a majority of the men to remain when he was startlingly left on his own. He looked up with irritation as the door opened. His heart dropped to his feet as a battered man was dragged into the room, locked in the grip of a soldier. The man hit the ground after being shoved forward and it took every single atom of his self-control not to cry out and go to his brother's aid. Sherlock's hair was wild, his face bearded and swollen nearly beyond recognition, but there was no doubt this was Sherlock. 

Sherlock struggled to his knees before he looked up to the man. A lamp made him wince and bow his head again though. He closed his stinging eyes and drawled, "Who do I have the pleasure of showing off for today? Borovic's very good with me. I make delightful noises under his hands." 

John sighed beside him. _Don't piss them off, Sherlock. You promised to come home_. Sherlock scowled to John, "Thought I told you to go back to the flat!" His words were a hiss of Pashto, "Go home, John."

Mycroft spoke, he had to, anything to let Sherlock know he was there. "Aleksander Nikola, security counsel to the Vatican Cameos at times, perhaps you've heard of me?" He was going to do his damnedest to protect Sherlock from whatever was to happen, watching as Borovic began to string him up. 

Sherlock started laughing, "Oh, I've heard of you. I guess you're here because of their little security leak. I hope you like watching." He tilted his head to Borovic. "Sharing me? I thought we had something special Borovic. It's almost our anniversary!"

Borovic drove a hard fist right to the center of Sherlock's gut and then grabbed Sherlock by his hair as he doubled, wrenching his head back and driving his fist into him again in the same place. To Mycroft he explained, "We've been trying to get after his intentions." He had his whip in hand, swiftly cracking it brutally hard over Sherlock's back before Mycroft could even speak. 

Myxcroft cleared his throat as he choked down the urge to shoot the man between the eyes. "If you render him unable to speak, I'm not exactly sure how successful your attempts will be." To Sherlock, he asked in English, "Is this tongue shared?" 

Sherlock cried out and choked on bile. He spat away from Borovic and wheezed in Gaelic, slurring so that even Mycroft would have a hard time understanding, “He speaks it, but not this, or French.”

Mycroft was seething, speaking back in French, as his Gaelic was rusty at best. “I am not leaving you. Endure just a while longer,” his tone was harsh, as though demanding information from Sherlock, staring hard at him in a livid expression of anger that was not difficult to fake with some massive fool pounding on his sibling. 

Borovic laughed and shook his head, “You see? Whatever he is paid or whoever he is loyal to, he will not shift. Was off in Arabic, I think, before, speaking to his little imaginary John.”

Sherlock looked to the corner where John stood shaking his head. _Don’t do it. You know I’m a figment. I’m in England, you know I am. Stay calm._ He hung his head, Pashto slipping out, “John, I want to go home. I’m _tired_.” _I know, Sherlock. Mycroft is here though. You’ll be home soon. We’ll go to Speedy’s or Angelo’s. Hang in there. Come home safe._

Borovic raised the whip again and Mycroft could no longer censor himself. “That will do nothing. He is hardly lucid. I speak the language, and he is speaking to no one physically present in this room. Find your superiors and bring them, or at the least, offer my services. We have a much more… effective method of interrogation.” 

Borovic lowered the whip and nodded, “He’s been an entertaining little ghost, sadly he won’t last much longer here.” He stared at Mycroft for another moment before thumbing the radio and speaking swiftly. With a nod, he left the room, head cocked to the side to hear his instruction. 

Mycroft was up from his seat and moving swiftly to his brother. He dragged his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, doing his best to appear brutal in his movements. He leaned in close, speaking to Sherlock, words hurried, “There is an extraction team. I will have you home tonight. A few hours longer, brother.” 

“Moriarty sold them the plans for the newest Afghanistan base. The real ones with all the entries and exits. That’s what I was looking for.” Sherlock’s French was pained, frantic as he struggled against Mycroft. “Fever, pain, tired, I will be fine.”

“Yes, you will.” He put his early thespian training to use, shoving away from Sherlock without putting any actual pressure on him, and paced in front of him. 

Within half an hour, Mycroft was removed from the room, leaving Sherlock in Yuri’s care as Nevic and he discussed the possibility of a transfer. It took another three hours of negotiations to convince all involved that Aleksander was the best suited to extract the information from him. 

Yuri wasted none of his time, young and bordering psychotic, he enjoyed making Sherlock scream just for the novelty of it. Mycroft made his calls, unaware of Sherlock’s plight, scrambling a team to meet them at the same tarmac which he had arrived days ago. 

Mycroft was made to wait at the vehicles while Sherlock was loaded into a prison transport van, still in his trousers and bare feet. They shackled him and wrapped a poor excuse of a blanket around his shoulders, tossing him onto a ripped leather seat. 

Mycroft was on the phone with Anthea, speaking in rushed French as they transported him to the airport. “I need John Watson, and a surgeon from Bart's with privileges. Have another physician from A and E at the ready if Watson cannot manage this. He needs clothes and a room set up, yes the one across from mine, yes. No, do not fetch out that violin his hand is a mess. Six hours, yes. Ambulance.” 

He ended the call and balled his fists to his knees, struggling to keep himself calm, more worried than he’d ever been and far more furious than he thought capable of being. 

Sherlock was in and out of consciousness, elbowed harshly by a guard every time he faded out. His brows furrowed. John spoke from across the van. _Just Mycroft, remember? Mycroft has you, Sherlock. You’re coming home to me. Can you hang on for me?_ Sherlock nodded, “Okay, John.”

It was hell. Agony did not describe what he felt adequately. The temperature in the van made every single nerve ending he had scream in pain as they were warmed again. The contusions, cuts, abrasions, and burns he had sang right along with it, resulting in a cacophony that threatened to drive him mad.

Mycroft stood on the tarmac, watching as the van drove up and pulled to a stop. There was a small Learjet waiting for them, a swift miracle from Anthea as the extraction team was now focused on the plans Sherlock had been trying to recover, instead of Sherlock himself. The engines whined, ready to go, and Mycroft stood with several armed guards, his coat in his hands despite the cold. 

Sherlock was dragged out of the vehicle with little caution. They kept him from hitting the ground, frog marching him to Mycroft with the limited mobility of the shackles. A packet of information was handed over to Mycroft, the entire affair treated as any other prisoner exchange, with Sherlock handed over to the guards at Mycroft’s side. 

Mycroft just pointed to the plane, taking a moment to speak with the men as Sherlock was led, stumbling and struggling, up the stairs and into the jet. It took all his discipline, yet again, not to turn and run for Sherlock. The entire exchange lasted less than ten minutes, though Mycroft would remember it as a yawning eternity, and he finally boarded the jet himself. “Get him loose,” he snapped when the door was closed behind him, heading directly for Sherlock who had been seated in a plush leather chair. 

“Sherlock? Look at me,” he whispered as the men pulled the shackles away, stepping back as Mycroft waved a hand at them. 

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and arched a brow. “If this is where you yell at me, stuff it. The John in my head has been doing that for three weeks off and on. I’m lucky my brain conjured him and not you. That would have been dreadful.” His body appeared to fold in on itself as he got that out. His eyes unfocused and he narrowed them, head swaying. “Stay still, Mycroft. It’s not difficult.”

Mycroft shook his head and stood, pushing Sherlock’s seat back as far as it would recline. He was handed a blanket, which he tucked around his brother carefully before pressing a hand to Sherlock’s forehead. He hissed at how hot he was and pulled his hand away. “Can you sleep? We are going home, sleep would be best until I can get you to John.”

Sherlock hummed at Mycroft before dropping out on him. His dreams were fevered and resulted in tossing about on the seat. He cried out for John at one point, body curling in on itself as though he were trying to dodge blows.

Mycroft set his tablet down as Sherlock began to stir. They were more than two hours out still. He’d hoped Sherlock would sleep. The man was utterly filthy, reeking of sweat and blood, various other scents Mycroft could identify and actively chose not to. He was most concerned with how fevered Sherlock was. He sported a gash across his chest that was so red it bordered purple, weeping and massively infected. 

“Sherlock,” he called out, putting a hand on Sherlock’s knee as he crouched over his brother, “Sherlock, you are safe now.”

Sherlock came to unbound and his hand moved, yanking Mycroft’s off his knee by the wrist. He shouted in Serbian, sentence halfway out before he realized who had him, “You should not have untied me you-” His brow furrowed. “My?”

For a moment, Mycroft was dumbstruck. Sherlock had not used that particular moniker for decades, and the effect of it was powerful, shredding through his chest, flaring to life the fierce protectiveness he practiced when Sherlock still wore a pirate hat to his lessons. He covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, “I’ve got you, Sherlock. I know you’re in pain, getting to you was difficult but we will soon have you to John and he will fix this.”

Sherlock nodded as he looked around the plane. “Not in Serbia?”

Mycroft shook his head, “Not in Serbia. Can you sleep?” Borovic had taunted Sherlock with sleep. Not with the typical offer of water, or medical attention, but _sleep_. There were a great number of things Sherlock could endure, but the mind required rest and if he had been denied overly long... Mycroft drew in a deep breath and forced himself not to dwell. What was done was done, and they would work around it. 

Sherlock drew Mycroft’s hand to his hair, leaving it there. He closed his eyes and let himself slip back down, murmuring to John that they were almost home.

Mycroft abandoned his mobile and his tablet, spending the remainder of the flight next to his brother, smoothing his palm over the chaos that had become Sherlock’s natural curls. He did not leave Sherlock’s side until they began to descend, sitting across from him so that he would be able to see Mycroft if he woke. Mycroft looked out the window, noting the waiting ambulance already on the airfield with a sigh of relief. 

Mycroft deliberated on waking his brother or not, loathing the idea of disturbing his sleep. He decided to in the end, given how swiftly Sherlock had reacted to him. Medics were already in the jet with a gurney, ready to move Sherlock without making him attempt the stairs. 

“Sherlock, wake up for me.”

Sherlock snapped awake, taking in the jet and the sounds before his eyes settled on Mycroft. Sherlock sat up in small increments. He whimpered in pain. “Home?”

Mycroft nodded, as gentle as he’d been in many years. “London. There are medics right here,” he shifted and pointed to them, “can we get you to lie down, they can start treating you right now, see if we can ease this pain a bit? Will you let them help?”

Sherlock stood on shaking legs. He swayed back and forth for a moment before moving toward the stretcher. His body gave out on him when he reached it. One of the medics had to catch him and haul him onto the thin mattress.

Mycroft moved with them, waving at them to hurry as they strapped Sherlock in, leaving his arms free and slightly elevating the head of the gurney. “We are not going to hospital, I’m having it brought to you. We are going to my home, and I will only take you to Bart's if there is care you require that cannot be brought in.”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes again. He was too exhausted to argue. “I’m going home to Baker Street as soon as I can. Home to John.” His eyes drooped as one of the men gave him a small dose of painkiller in his arm. “Bit bumpy sir, don’t want him to hurt while we move him. It’s not much, won’t last long, should get him home though.” 

The last thing Sherlock saw was John smiling to Sherlock over Mycroft’s shoulder. _See you soon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends. Thanks for sticking around!
> 
> Stay tuned for more from us!


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